


Six : Roisin Sheridan Bryson, Not Yet Burning : I Don't Smoke But I Feel Smoke In My Chest / And Carrying My Life In Its Path

by spilled_ink



Series: The First and The Last [6]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Chau is also perfect, M/M, Newton is perfect, OOC Hannibal, POV Hannibal, Sorry for ooc, Too fluffy to be real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2181330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilled_ink/pseuds/spilled_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Also Known as : Chau reflects on the the relationship he has with Newton. </p>
<p>Slightly OOC in the actual reflection part (actually, very OOC but I had to write it) so apologies on that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six : Roisin Sheridan Bryson, Not Yet Burning : I Don't Smoke But I Feel Smoke In My Chest / And Carrying My Life In Its Path

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asphoria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asphoria/gifts).



Hannibal Chau sprawls back in his very expensive, very comfortable Kaiju Leather armchair and allows his head to roll back to rest against the slickness of the headrest. His eyes flutter shut and he inhales quietly, not letting out the breath for almost a minute, savouring the way his lungs burn as he holds it inside him. His eyes rove over the high ceiling and fix on a point directly above his head before he finally breathes out.

He's careful to make sure the sound is muffled not wanting to disturb his ~~employee~~ ~~fuckbuddy~~ ~~partner~~ lover. Without moving from his seat, without looking down or breaking his concentration, he knows what he'll see if he were to stir, if he were to let his eyes fall back to earth. It's a sight he's enjoyed so many times before having seen it night after night, day after day, time after time; a sight he imagines he's never going to get tired of nomatter how long he gazes at it in equal parts adoration and equal parts hunger.

On the bed directly opposite him, Newton lies sprawled over 1000 count Egyptian cotton sheets, limbs tangled in the soft material, his cheek nuzzling softly into the pillow under his head in the impression that it's Hannibal's chest. The older man just sits back in his chair and smiles softly, gold teeth flashing in the dim light. From where he sits, the tattoos on Newton's body come to life, miniature Kaiju inking his body, three dimensional in the light, shifting as the planes of his body move. Newt's body reamins as soft and pliant and as fuckable as ever but not as much given the time and the fact that Chau would rather feast his eyes on the site and not yet ravage it, at least, not yet.

He doesn't think he's ever seen anything so captivating before. The lean lines of Newton's body, lightly defined limbs and a full face, his lips parted, hair mussed up and that goddamn smile, that grin lilting on his face even in sleep. Hannibal smiles subconsciously, the movement coming naturally to him despite having lived through his life, almost, a life filled with meaningless sex and drugs and an empire that will mean nothing to anyone once he's died. His mind wanders even as his eyes fix on Newt's form, taking comfort in the scientist that had found a place in his company, his bed and eventually, as softly and as easily as falling asleep, in his heart.

Hannibal thinks that perhaps, perhaps he loves him in a strange, twisted way; the way in which he'll gut any other man that tries to touch Newt, the way he provides fresh Kaiju parts and makes sure Newt is dressed well, eating well, comfortable in a little slice of Hannibal's own personal heaven. He doesn't smoke, not anymore because he'd rather not let Newton taste the cigarettes and ash on his lips, the bitter nicotine of fags and cigars, the same nicotine that signified the material possessions he once held close to his heart. They're the same possessions he'd cast aside in favour of the clingy, whiny, brilliant and oddly beautiful scientist that now lay on his bed. The scientist had changed everything, irreversibly, forever... or so he thinks.

On reflection, Newt had remained exactly the same, it had been Chau that had made the allowances. He was the one that let Newt coax him away from business meeting with new findings on his experiments, he was the one that allowed Newt to keep him up with really bad rockstar music and late night videos and cuddling and sex and god forbid Hannibal Chau cuddled but he did and he had changed oh so much for Newt. For the better. He opens his mouth to speak knowing that Newton will not hear this in his sleep but wanting to feel like he's said enough done enough in this relationship to be meaningful beyond just sex and sweat and Newton has gasped out an infinite 'I Love Yous' but he hasn't, Hannibal hasn't, not yet but this is it.

He purses his lips before taking another breath and speaking softly into the quiet gloom.

"I don't smoke, not anymore, not since after you asked me not to, but sometimes if I hold my breath for long enough I can taste the nicotine on my lips, bitter and sharp, and I can feel the smoke in my chest, curling through my lungs, setting my nerve ending on fire and relighting a feeling that I though I'd long since lost.

I have an eye for the finer things in life and I think, sometimes, that life imitates art, or maybe the other way around where when you look at things for long enough you can form correlations between one to another, inanimate objects coming to life whilst animate objects freeze in time and turn to stone, their essence captured perfectly as they come to a halt.

Sometimes I watch you and think that you are the embodiment of all those feelings; how your beautifully inked tattoos play against your skin and take on a life on of their own while you, you the flesh and blood behind it disappear from view but still remain embodied in the spirit of your ink and live on through the art Other times I can just glance at you and have my breath catch in my throat the same way the cigars rob me of air but so much better because it burns more in a way that is as pleasurable as it is painful, feeling dredged up from the bottom of my being.

I could never tell you this but I think it every time I meet your eyes and see that lopsided grin and taste your lips on my tongue I can feel you pulling me along, pulling me in a little closer every time, dragging me along as you dance on stage, one hundred percent a rock star with flashing lights and your name plastered to the skies. But mostly, I feel you carrying my life in your path and I wonder what I would have been like if you hadn't waltzed in here the first time you did and I hadn't fucked you hard every time after that and I can't imagine it the same way I can't remember why I ever needed cigarettes in the first place when I had you."

Newton stirs on the bed, head popping off the pillow as he twists around to get an eyeful of Hannibal Chau as the other man's words die on his lips. Newt's lips split into a wide smile.

"Fuck dude." he breathes almost reverently. "That was an awesome speech. And for what it's worth... ditto."

And here Hannibal was thinking he was inarticulate. He just shakes his head, amused, the moment passing, before he stands to rejoin Newt on the bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, my apologies for the OOC-ness of Hannibal Chau but urgh I like to think he can be like this, just for Newt. I hope this is at least semi-plausible and somewhat coherent because honestly I had no idea where I was going with this and this is the third re-write.
> 
> On another note, well fuck, what can I say? I ummm... I was tired and writing helps me vent, kind of, so ummm, for who this concerns, I miss you shit loads and certain days it just sinks in. I'm sorry.


End file.
